


After Presidia

by monsterzu



Category: Project Wingman (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Highway 34, Presidia, ending expansion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29177010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterzu/pseuds/monsterzu
Summary: Set some days after the last mission, the members of Hitman team process what they've been through
Comments: 11
Kudos: 39





	1. Red Coronation

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILER WARNING

“I can’t.... I’m sorry...”

Monarch’s breath was labored. His thighs were numb from squeezing them together through the countless high G turns. He started feeling wisps of lightheadedness and tensed his muscles to force the blood to his head.

He leveled his plane out to give him and his WSO a chance for their bodies to recover, but he couldn’t maintain the plane’s attitude for much longer. His helmet filled with the alarm of missile warnings. After so many of them during the battle, his mind subconsciously filtered them out. He was focused on one thing: survival.

The last words of his WSO were present in the back of his mind as he turned hard. Each missile bound for him whizzed past and popped a few meters away. Each small blast rattled the cockpit and his stick, sending vibrations into his tight palms. He could feel it in his teeth.

_ I need to end this now _

An unwelcome voice broke through past the alarms of his radar warning receiver, past the cry of his engines in full afterburner, and past the shockwaves of railgun shells narrowly missing him.

“Just me and you, whoever wins is the best pilot”

Behind his dark tinted visor, the eyes of the veteran mercenary Monarch were fixed in the distance. Beyond the flickering lime green glow of his heads up display was the only bandit on radar. Monarch pulled the knob on his helmet to lift his visor up, and let his vision adjust to the red and orange glow of his surroundings: of Presidia and the Cordium fallout.

He flew head on towards the bandit.

peeehvvvvv

peehvvv

Monarch’s eyes squinted as the streaks of Crimson 1’s railgun shells zipped past his left and right wings, filling his cockpit with their blue and yellow rays of light. With his flight stick firmly in his hand, he flexed his thumb forward, pressing the weapon release button twice. The jet rattled briefly as two sidewinders raced out from under his wing towards their target, adding yet more streaks of white smoke to the shattered sky.

The green circle on his HUD stayed locked on to the bandit as it shot off to the right. The piper showing the calculated impact of his gun appeared as Monarch reflexively pulled on his stick in pursuit. Hard. 

He clamped his thighs and shortened his breath in his personal fight to stay conscious as the piper caught up to his target.

_ AAggh _

With one strong pull, Monarch briefly aligned his piper onto the experimental aircraft and opened up a long volley of rounds that reached out towards the dark aircraft. The bandit was too quick and the spray of orange tracers just could not grab the tail of the aircraft. He relented as the sound of whining metal indicated he was over G’ing his plane.

The bandit made a physics defying turn, changing course 90 degrees in a fraction of a second, back towards the source of the gunfire.

Monarch’s cockpit shook as the two opponents merged, passing each other at close to Mach 2 relative speed. 

Monarch reversed his turn for another pass, as did his enemy.

“Every safety is coming off! No second chances...”

Monarch kept his speed up. As good of a pilot he was, there was no way he could keep up in a dogfight with his deranged foe. Pushing his plane further could snap his wings off, and he also needed to manage Prez’s unconscious blood flow. He lifted his gaze for just a second towards his mirror, looking back at his loyal WSO.

_ I’ll get you through this _

He lined his F-14D up for another run.

_ This is the one _

Monarch pushed his thumb to the right on the 4-way hat on his stick, selecting his multi-lock missiles. He waited for the right time to strike.

“HaaHaHHHaahahaaAAHHH”

Crimson 1’s laughter grew maniacal as his mind slipped further and further into insanity. On one hand, Monarch felt sorry for the lost Cascadian. He remembered a time he once blindly followed the ideals of a flag.

Peeeehvvvvvvvvvvv

A railgun shell ripped and warped the air outside his cockpit. It was too close.

Now Monarch was fed up. The pity he felt was quickly replaced with rage, rising in parallel to Crimson 1’s unhinging. He forcefully pressed the red button on his stick over and over. His plane shook and lifted up, lighter from the reduced weight of the remaining missiles on his hardpoints. A flood of white smoke filled the air in front of him. He kept smashing the weapon release even though he had already exhausted his supply of MLAAs.

“HAAHAAAAHHHAAAA”

The laughter grew louder and more twisted. The taste of salt met Monarch’s tongue; the sweat having already saturated his hair was trickling down his cheeks.

He heard a pop in the distance. Then several more.

_ Did I get him?  _

He was uncertain as the clouds hanging above Presidia blocked his line of sight. But he soon was proven wrong. A railgun shell punctured the curtain of grey ash and went right through his wing.

_ Shit, there’s a hole in my wing _

Then another came, slicing his entire left rudder off. Then another, and another.

_ Shit SHIT _

Monarch’s forearm was stiff as he pulled on his flight stick reflexively. There was minimal feedback from his plane as it slowly jinked up. Another railgun shell narrowly missed the cockpit, scorching the nose dome.

The last shell in the volley hit him square. Monarch knew that one was bad. Peering over his shoulder, he winced at the sight of black smoke and flames coming from his exhaust. He regained some of his signature composure and remembered his training. 

He flicked open the red cover over a switch on the panel in front of him and cut off the fuel pump to the smoldering engine. After a quick look back, he sighed in relief as the flames subsided... for now.

His RWR was still going haywire. Panic was setting in. The laughter grew louder and louder in his helmet. Monarch momentarily lapsed, his eyes glued to the sun meagerly poking through the thick cloud of ash hanging over Presidia.

He felt weightlessness, then a pull to his side. The evening sun moved across his sight and Monarch realized his jet was entering a flat spin. Without hesitation Monarch attempted to restart the engine while pulling his stick back and applying full rudder. The reliable and well maintained jet started correcting with calculated lateral movements of the stick, but he was not yet in full control.

Monarch heard the RWR pick up again, this time blaring rapidly as the bandit was closing in on him. As his jet poked above the clouds, he looked up and saw him. Crimson 1’s jet circled above him like a crow, aiming to confirm his would-be kill. Feeling as helpless as a fish in a barrel, Monarch for once was actually terrified. 

His mind was coming off the rails of his training and survival instincts took over his otherwise calculated and methodic flying style. He dropped his nose to regain speed and some control, but response was still poor and his altimeter had little altitude to offer. Scrambling thinking what to do, he settled on the last of his options.

He looked straight at the yellow and black striped canopy jettison handle and pulled it without a second thought. There was a woosh of air as the long canopy of the F-14 shot up and was quickly consumed into the cloud of ash. The air was loud and piercing while Monarch waited for clear air to ensure he wouldn’t eject himself and his WSO into a cordium fire.

As the ash cleared away above him, the bright red glow of the once great capital of Cascadia filled his vision. He glanced up one more time as debris shedding off his plane floated in his periphery. 

Then he saw it. 

His eyes fixed themselves to the silhouette of Crimson 1 in a dive towards his plane. This was the ultimate losing cue. Monarch accepted his fate. He knew he wasn’t successful this time, that he wasn’t enough to take this on by himself.

He yanked the ejection handle, but it was stuck. He pulled again and again, this time using his legs for more leverage.

_ Come on, COME ON _

“Predictable” 

The once melancholic and unhinged voice was now cold and calculated.

The experimental jet fired its guns. Monarch looked in despair as the rounds hit his plane, and his WSO. He felt one go right through his head.

...

Monarch’s eyes shot open in the pitch black room.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  
  



	2. Heavy is the Head

_ Remember me _

Monarch gasped for air as he yelled out. His tense muscles shot his body forward to a sitting position, and his right hand already clutched the pistol he kept under his pillow. The pitch black environment left him disoriented.

“SHUT UP”

Monarch slammed his fist against the concrete wall next to him.

“...shut up”

His chest grew and fell rapidly. The taste of salt met his tongue, his face covered in sweat. 

As his eyes adjusted to the dark room of the barracks, he found his physical bearings.. and his mental ones. He sat shaking. The anguish and terror he felt wouldn’t let him relax..

He heard a ruffle in the room, followed by a quick set of steps. Reflexively, Monarch pointed his gun in its direction, then was blinded by a surge of light. When his vision recovered, he saw a figure standing next to the door.

“WHOA whoa whoa, relax it’s me!”

Monarch’s wingman, Diplomat, held his hands up as he backed away.

“I probably deserve a gun in my face for everything I’ve done, but I wasn’t expecting it from you, Monarch”

Monarch put the gun’s safety on and put a hand to his forehead. The adrenaline pumping through him caused his body to shake uncontrollably.

“Sorry”

He managed to say while forcing his frame to become rigid.

“Don’t worry man, this base is secure. Ronin’s got it locked down, and they’re out for Federation blood. Hell, I am too, dammit!”

Diplomat smashed his fist into an open palm.

“Yeah”

Monarch stood up tensely, as his legs still ached from the last flight some days ago. He managed his way to the door.

_ What’s with him? _

Diplomat shot a confused look at his flight lead. He never saw him so worked up over anything. To him Monarch was always the unproblematic, well... untalkative, leader of Hitman, and never had any issues after sortie. None that he had seen, anyway. Diplomat was too shaken to say anything else, and gave Monarch the space he thought he needed.

Monarch opened the door to the hallway where he saw his other wingman standing alertly in front of him.

“What’s going on? Have we been made?”

Comic had one hand at her side holding a revolver and the other covering her mouth as she finished yawning. She stood in the doorway of the room right across from Diplomat and Monarch’s. Just behind her, Prez was shifting in her bed.

Monarch gave no response as he wondered how many others he woke up with his outburst.

“I’d love to pop a Fed’s skull at anytime, but I wished they picked a better hour to attack”

She steadied her stance, set the hammer back on her gun, and walked in step with her flight lead.

“Nothing’s happening, you can go back to sleep”

Monarch put his gun in the pocket of his flight suit whose sleeves were tied around his waist, and then continued down the hallway. Comic stopped and raised an eyebrow back at Dip who motioned her over.

They talked inaudibly as Monarch went into one of the restrooms.

Prez laid awake in her bed, having already been up all night due to her restlessness.

She had trouble sleeping after a fear of losing consciousness took hold of her. Her body was still recovering from the beating it took from high G maneuvers when she was G-locked, let alone all the other times she flew in Monarch’s backseat. The war was catching up to her body, and she knew the last mission was cutting it too close. After a lousy 48 hours of forced bedrest and painkillers, she had finally reached clarity of mind and forced herself off it.

She was no stranger to the punishment of flying as Hitman 1’s WSO. After all the time spent flying with Sicario’s top dog, she was used to it. What kept her up this night was guilt, and she heard everything from the other room.

_ Is Monarch okay? _

_ It’s all my fault. It’s my fault Monarch had to take him on alone. I failed him. _

She slammed her head into her pillow, and winced as a sting of pain radiated from the bruise on her temple. She put a hand to it, softly pressing into the layers of gauze wrapped around her forehead.

_ If I was just stronger and could hold on longer _

She began to recall the events of that day, playing back the moments before her memory blacked out.

_ What was Monarch going through... alone _

She sat up in her bed and felt her sides ache dully, but familiarly. There was a pain in her stomach, too. Hunger. She focused on that to hold down the emotions that were beginning to stew in her mind.

_ There’s still some leftovers in the kitchen _

“Don’t worry Robin, there’s no Feds coming for us tonight... or Cascadians for that matter.”

Comic came back into the room after Diplomat filled her in. She looked at her crew chief empathetically, thinking about her fair share of injuries over the years.

“Is... Monarch okay?”

Prez set her focus on Comic’s reaction which wasn’t too reassuring.

“He’s okay, I think he had a bad dream? He just needs a break...by Dust Mother he deserves one”

But Prez knew there was more to it than that, and looked unconvinced.

“Okay he’s wound up pretty tight. Pulled his 9 mil on Dip even.”

_ He’s not okay _

Prez lifted her blanket off, and timidly set her feet to the cold tiled floor.

“I’m okay too in case you’re wondering!” Diplomat yelled from the other room. He was not all that okay.

“I’m sure, Peter.”

Comic and Diplomat entered into their usual waltz of banter that had been finely tuned from their codependence for entertainment during the off hours on the ground. Nowadays, it was their coping mechanism to feel a sense of normality.

Prez clutched the metal frame of her bed, and eased herself on to her feet. She could feel the pain throbbing in her calves and thighs, but steeled herself enough to put on the slippers that served her well all this time. It was a parting gift from her Aunt before she last set out to join Sicario, and the warm thoughts of home temporarily eased her mind. Thinking of home often got her through the rough patches, and she would put a little extra in the funds she sent home when it got really trying.

“I’m gonna see if there’s still some leftovers.”

Prez noticed the quiet question marks on Comic and Diplomat’s faces as she made her way to the door.

“I can bring it here for you-” Comic trailed off.

“I’m fine Eve, plus I need to give my legs some exercise”

She felt woozy and lightheaded, but kept herself straight enough to convince them.

“Yeah, Eve, you know you could also-”

Comic punched Diplomat in the chest, as he laughed painfully.

“You do realize this thing is loaded, right?”

Comic pointed the gun in his direction, after quietly ensuring the hammer was safe and her finger off the trigger.

“How many times are you going to point that thing at me?”

“Depends... when are you going to stop acting like an idiot!”

She gave him another whack for good measure.

Prez made her way down the hall, letting them resume their banter.

_ I need to get my head straight _

Monarch splashed cold water on his face and stood over the sink letting the drops filter through his hair and trickle down his chin.

The war caught up to him. He felt anger everytime he pictured the Federation Peacekeeper Crimson 1 in his mind. The guilt he felt having survived, when so many hadn’t, was setting in. 

_ Why me _

More than that, he was genuinely scared, terrified at what could have happened to him... or his team.

He splashed his face some more until the taste of sweat was no longer noticeable and his skin was clear. Then, he pressed paper towels to his face and let it soak up the excess moisture. Once dry, he stared blankly at his reflection in the mirror. He was still young, but now he noticed some age being put on with each engagement he’s been in. He was only in his late twenties, but a few white hairs were beginning to show.

_ If not me, then who else _

Monarch was the top dog of Sicario, and had grown into the role of flight lead early on. He knew he was responsible for his team. The type to get things done and have the skills to back it up, he was comfortable filling a role not many could. He remained grounded; however, and never let his reputation affect his proficiency in the air. Nor did he ever let himself get overconfident in an engagement.

He regained a bit of his composure while putting his arms through the sleeves of his flight suit. He felt like it was his armor sometimes: the patches of Sicario stitched on the sleeves. He steadied himself on his feet, and headed for the door.

“Hey Monarch, you doing okay?”

Prez was leaning against the wall to take the weight off her legs, but rose once her pilot entered the hall. She stood a few inches shorter, such that the stained bandage wrapped around her head was at Monarch’s eye level.

“Yeah. How are you holding up?”

Prez didn’t seem convinced, and folded her arms. She wanted to put Monarch on the defensive so he wouldn’t notice her current state.

“You sure? Dip said you pointed a gun at him”

Monarch followed her gaze to the end of the hallway, leading to his wingmen whispering by their rooms. When they noticed Monarch’s face, they ducked their heads into one of the rooms.

“I’m okay, really”

Monarch’s cheeks relaxed, having known it was in fact just a dream and his WSO is okay, but he was still overcompensating in the delivery of his reply.

“Uh-huh”

She looked back at Monarch. Over the time they’ve been flying together, Prez picked up on a lot of his subtle cues, even the ones that his longtime wingmen failed to notice.

Monarch got his mind temporarily off his nightmare by focusing on the relief he felt seeing his WSO on her feet.

Prez wasn’t satisfied with Monarch’s answers, and wanted to pry deeper. She thought of an excuse to get them to talk somewhere private when her stomach rumbled.

“Come with me to the kitchen, I think there’s still some leftovers in the fridge.”

Before Monarch could potentially protest, she grabbed him by the arm and guided him forward, also using him as a crutch.

They made their way to the adjoining hangar. Just a handful of days ago it was full of mechanics and techs working overtime to maintain Sicario’s planes. Now it was starkly empty, save the lone surviving plane of Hitman: an F-14D.

As the lights of the hangar flickered on, it was now apparent how much damage the surviving jet sustained. The once shiny nozzles of the engines were now completely covered in soot, evident of excessive afterburner usage. Some of the flaperons were missing from the trailing edge of one wing, and there was more exposed metal than paint. Scorch marks covered and streaked across the entire body, and bits of shrapnel were still embedded on parts of the belly.

“Holy hell...”

A memory triggered in Prez’s mind of when she first started regaining consciousness, still strapped in the backseat. The canopy was open, and Monarch’s face was lit by the floodlights of a fire brigade. Monarch cut her out of her harness and lifted her into a stretcher. While the other details remained hazy, she distinctly pictured Monarch’s signature no nonsense face as he yelled at the medic and wondered how the hell he managed to land the plane with a missing aileron.

Prez had been under bed rest from the moment she could remember gaining consciousness again and was now on the hangar floor for the first time since they took off. Her mind naturally began analyzing the damage to the aircraft. She had become acquainted with every wire and bolt on that plane. More panels were replacements than the original ones at the start of the contract. 

She initially felt a sense of dread at the work to be done. However, her face started to contort as her mind started piecing together what happened during the fight after she blacked out. 

_ If the plane was that banged up, how was its pilot? _

She started to run diagnostics on her pilot who was also now seeing the true extent of the damage.

Monarch’s eyes scanned over the swept wings of his trusted jet. It had seen tough times, but this was the worst shape he’s ever seen it in. Each scorch mark on the wing triggered a replay in his mind of the specific railgun shell he narrowly evaded. Each piece of shrapnel was a memento of the flares he deployed at the last second to evade the endless barrage of missiles.

Prez sensed Monarch’s frame tense up, and felt the shared anguish running through him. 

_ Remember me _

Monarch felt his mind inching back to that dark corner.

“Hey, come on, let’s eat”

As Prez headed to the door of the kitchen, Monarch could see the heaviness and instability in her step. She was beginning to feel lightheaded and faint. Monarch’s mind quickly regrouped.

He propped her up as they entered the small break room that had become Sicario’s makeshift kitchen. A minifridge was placed in a corner next to a water cooler that needed to be changed. One of the mechs donated a microwave which sat on a counter next to a package of instant noodles and an open pack of cigarettes.

“Here, just rest. I’ll warm it up for you.”

Monarch helped her down on a folding chair next to a small, round table. 

As he went over to the fridge, Prez smiled. Monarch was always taking care of her, whether it was her safety in the air or her checkbook with the extra earnings from missions. She wondered if he knew of the money she sent back to her family when he always made sure to go back and line up secondary targets for her.

_ And I take care of him too _

She thought warmly.

_ Not just his plane and his radios _

The microwave dinged and Monarch pulled out a steaming container of rice, beans, and the bit of king crab that was still left. Although the calamity event had made getting food tight, crab fishing still remained good. He placed a couple forks in the container, and grabbed a couple water bottles and headed back. 

_ Prez really only ate half her food anyways, but she needs to get her strength back _

“Ah yess there’s still more crab! Peter made such a good meal last night”

She rubbed her hands together and licked her lips.

Monarch sat down opposite of her after setting everything down. He faced the window to the hangar and his eyes were drawn to his battered plane. He distinctly noticed the scorch marks on his tail- right by his insignia.

_ How many times did I have to shoot him down? What if he somehow survived? _

“So what was your dream about?”

Prez asked between bites, now washing it down with water as she waited for an answer.

Monarch hadn’t realized how long he’d been staring outside and blinked. Prez looked at him as he met her curious eyes. He recoiled as the darkest parts of his nightmare replayed in his mind. 

He darted his eyes down and to the side, then back.

“Nothing that interesting”

He resumed dissecting every panel of his plane and relived the events they detailed.

_ Thank Mother the canopy is untouched _

Prez sensed Monarch was being evasive, and noticed his eyes were locked on the damaged plane behind her.

“Hey! Take your mind off of it, it’s not healthy to keep thinking about it.”

Monarch looked at her, then down, but his eyes kept getting pulled back towards the plane. Prez thought her words were almost hypocritical considering that she was letting her mind go down the rabbit hole of guilt while she laid awake in bed earlier.

“Here come sit by me”

She pulled an adjacent chair next to her such that it faced in the same direction as her, towards the back wall of the room and away from the plane.

Monarch hesitated, but then stood immediately when Prez threatened to stand up. 

She made it halfway up, but had to brace her hands on the table to keep steady. She was still a bit dizzy.

“Okay, okay! Take it easy”

Monarch helped her back down, then sat on the chair next to her. 

He rested his arms on the table with his hands in a ball. His eyes darted around the room, but then settled on the poster in front of him. It was a picture of a geo-whale sucking a school of fish into its double layered mouth. The caption below it read “Everybody’s gotta eat”

“It was about the last flight.”

Monarch finally answered. Prez’s eyes widened as she realized there was more to his nightmare. Images of their last sortie flashed in her mind rapidly: the war cries of Kaiser and Ronin, the desperation of the remaining Federation fighters refusing to surrender, the Fed navy limping out of the harbor... all just minutes before the ceasefire.

“I’m having trouble shaking this one, so soon after Prospero-”

Monarch felt himself tense up, and his hands making fists. He didn’t need to finish the sentence to get the message across. They were witnesses of history, of a second Calamity. 

Prez began to recall the horror of the Prospero disaster, and the desperation of their attempts to stop the cruise missiles. She felt guilty for wanting to flee that battle in the beginning. Terror took her over when she remembered the cordium bomb that exploded over Presidia. The same terrible thoughts kept her up at night. 

At the same time, her antennas were dialed in to Monarch’s frequency so completely. She never heard him open up about his feelings. Things were always “decent” or “not bad”, but now she was taking in all of Monarch’s bare feelings.

“I was scared I wasn’t good enough to stop him... scared I lost everyone...scared I lost you”

The last words cracked her open. She had been holding in her feelings for some time. The recollection of what happened coupled with the unignorable reality that sat parked in the hangar caused her to unravel.

Thousands of thoughts she keeped under a tight lock started racing through her mind. “Scared” was never something she thought was in Monarch’s vocabulary. Never during his dauntless charge straight towards Crimson squadron the first time they popped up, nor during their deep solo strike or headlong charges into the furballs over the Bering Strait did Prez ever sense the slightest hesitation in her pilot.

She shed a few tears.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t keep up”

She wiped the tears under her eyes, and felt a fresh wave of emotion pulsed through her as her voice broke towards the end. Prez pressed her face into Monarch’s arm. She threaded her arm around his, and let her tears flow.

_ Great, now you’ve done it, Monarch _

Monarch did not anticipate how hard his words resonated with his WSO.

“It’s not your fault, you had told me how hard it was getting.. I should have listened”

“Mm mm, no it’s all my fault. I didn’t pick him up on radar, I let everyone down..”

Prez’s words came through muffled by the patches on Monarch’s flight suit, in between the sobs and heavy breathing. He could feel the warmth of her breath and the dampness of her tears beginning to seep through. He was releasing the thoughts that had been kept locked shut for some time now. For the last 48 hours, he didn’t allow himself the opportunity to really process what he’d been through.

“I let you down.”

Monarch fully surrendered his arm to the muffled cries of his closest ally. He tried to tell her otherwise, but to no avail.

He felt the tightness in his face compound his blurring vision. It momentarily cleared up as a hot tear rolled down his cheek, then another following suit on the other cheek. They sat like this for a moment, their minds processing and scratching the itch that laid buried deep. Of everyone in Sicario, he felt his most vulnerable with Prez, and trusted her with his true emotions in that room. 

Monarch wiped his cheeks, and rallied himself after feeling drained. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this way. Prez made some inaudible murmurs as she continued to berate herself.

_ Shit happens _

He always appreciated his WSO’s presence and her damn fine job bringing the jet back to 100% after a mission. She was a priceless member of his team, and he appreciated being able to focus on flying while she handled the radar and radio callouts. There was a synergy in their teamwork. 

He couldn’t understand why, but there was more to her for him, and he found himself attached to her forthright personality. Although he hadn’t given it too much thought, there wasn’t anyone else he wanted to be with in the moment.

Hitman 1 then remembered his role in the team, and let his responsibility steel his mind. He knew he got the gunk out, and he focused on his partner. 

_ She needs to know it’s not her fault _

He delicately placed his palm on her temple and rubbed it softly with his thumb, making sure to avoid the bruises under her bandage. Prez felt the warmth of Monarch’s hand on her ear, and placed her hand gently over his. She always felt safe in Monarch’s steady hands, even truer now in the literal sense.

She couldn’t understand why, but Prez found herself feeling safe and secure in his presence. When he entered each briefing she felt a wave of reassurance, and never seriously second guessed the decisions he made in the air. But there was more to him for her, and although she hadn’t given it too much thought, she liked being held by him in that moment. And she didn’t know what words could express her inability to rip herself away from him.

“You know... my last crew chief was from the Fed Core. They came to Sicario without any knowledge of maintaining variable sweep wings.”

His words broke the silence in the air that had seemed to last forever.

Prez shifted a bit thinking about how green she was when she first joined, but kept her ears open to the rare story Monarch was offering.

“During one long mission, I swept my wings forward and put my flaps down to get a better turn rate in a dogfight. They did the trick and I splashed the bandit with my guns, but the flaps were stuck down. I had to fly hundreds of miles back to base with my flaps down. It was so bad, I could barely trim the plane to level flight.”

Prez had settled, and was in tune with Monarch’s story, never having heard him say more than a few sentences at a time. She no longer hid her face in Monarch’s flight suit, and instead rested her cheek higher up on his shoulder.

“So I was a little apprehensive when we fought the last engagement. I couldn’t afford any mistakes with our lives on the line... But I had a feeling things would be okay- my current chief hadn’t failed me yet.”

Prez lifted her head and stole a look at Monarch who was blankly staring ahead as he was envisioning the events in his mind. The flattery was welcome, and was taking her mind off the storm in her head.

_ Remember m- shut up _

Monarch blocked out Crimson 1 and the ruins of Presidia as his mind replayed the events, and instead focused solely on his hand in the cockpit adjusting the flaps.

“Every part did it’s job. I was surprised how well the flaps were responding pulling all that AoA. And the engines were still accelerating at 1300 knots- but I’m sure you knew all of that already... just what I needed then.”

Prez managed to crack a smile, and gave herself the credit. She knew that plane well, and was glad to hear her efforts made a difference when it mattered most. Monarch stole a look at her and mirrored the smile on her face.

“I don’t know what I would do without her... my crew chief.”

His words lifted some of the load Prez had been carrying. She needed to hear that. That she had done the best she could and it was  _ enough _ : enough to stop the madness and enough to save their lives.

Monarch felt his thoughts drift away from the cockpit of his plane, and instead was thinking about Prez. He felt the tingle of his last words work their way around the walls of his pilot experience, of his identity of Hitman 1 and the Crown, slipping through his tac name “Monarch” and directly dripping into his stomach in the form of butterflies. The warmth of Prez’s body holding onto his arm was taking hold of his mind, and he could not put into words his inability to rip himself away from her.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you either.”

Prez was amused by Monarch’s short, sweet story, but let her mind wander and settle on the pilot himself. She replied without hesitation and knew there were more words that pressed against the back of her teeth. Words she did not know in their outright form, but rather in a loose collection of experiences and feelings were beginning to come into focus. She felt almost as if she were trying to hold a sieve to a water fountain as those words snuck their way out of her heart and into her throat.

This time they both tried to steal a look at each other’s faces, but instead found themselves looking right into each other. Prez hesitated before she looked away.

“Am I just your crew chief?”

She felt as if her mouth had taken the reins from her, and was a little surprised at how she did little to stop it. A part of her wanted to say it, and that part of her had taken over control of her brain and body. She let her hand playfully rest on the stubble of Monarch’s cheek and aligned her eyes back to his.

A part of Monarch knew they were dancing on the border of the point of no return. Their emotions had laid bare, and the masks they wore everyday through their contract were in pieces at their feet. The part of Monarch that was “the Crown” or “the mercenary” or “Hitman 1” was secondary to the part of him that had taken control now.

Their eyes were locked into one another. Prez’s focus darted left and right between Monarch’s sharp eyes. Monarch looked back, cementing in his mind the image of Prez here and alive, replacing the one from his dreams. He felt nothing other than the moment there and then.

“No”

Their eyelids relaxed halfway, and they drifted inch by inch closer to each other.

....

...

..

.

Some time later, the silence was broken by the sound of a voice in the distance. It came from the hallway to the hangar, catching the attention of them both. 

They both backed away from each other sheepishly, their cheeks blushing and lips warm.

“Hey! Cut it out, Eve!”

“Shut up!”

A muffled giggle was barely made out from the voices, and it dawned on them the other members of Hitman had found them, but for how long they were uncertain.

“I’m going to kill Eve in her sleep” Prez declared as she made a fist on the table.

“And this time pull the trigger on Peter and his smug face.”

Monarch acknowledged the order with an awkward salute.

“Aye chief”

They were blushing still. Prez more so when she could feel the warmth of Monarch’s presence as he shifted closer to her.

“You gonna finish that?”

Monarch leaned over the table and grabbed his untouched fork. He had regained his appetite. He almost didn’t have to ask as the container was halfway eaten signalling Prez’s satisfaction. 

“I could use some help with it”

Prez smiled as she slid the container closer to him. Monarch smiled seeing she had left a few bites of crab for him, and Prez helped herself to a few more bites.

As they chewed on their late night snack, Prez resumed possession of her pilot’s arm and returned her head to a comfortable spot on his shoulder. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  



	3. Survivor's Guilt

“Monarch sure is something else, isn’t he?”

Diplomat sighed as he looked through the window of the door to the hangar. On the other side of the wire mesh glass stood a lone F-14 with a myriad of battle scars.

“That’s for damn sure. He’s been on another level this contract, but he’s wound up tighter than a rope.”

Comic put a hand on her hip as she relaxed her stance, standing next to her wingman.

She scanned the scorched nose cone of the plane, and let her eyes rake over the burn marks. 

_ Railgun shells _

It reminded her of when they provided air support for the Eminent Domain: when they experienced the firepower of those projectiles en masse for the first time. She lamented at her hesitation during the battle, firing her missiles from standoff range “zooming and booming” while Monarch and Prez wove in between the cruisers, drawing the bulk of the railgun fire. Of all her experiences being on boats, she had never seen one plane strip all the defenses on a battleship in a single gun run. She almost felt guilty for stealing the final blow while Monarch came around for another pass.

_ Gotta love the payout on ships, though _

Still, she had nothing but respect for Hitman 1’s operators, but she wondered what got into them, and what brought the “Demon” out of Monarch. Before the contract, there were plenty of times she footed the bill for dinner. But since they entered Cascadia, it seemed like Monarch was untouchable in the kill feed.

_ And taking on the Peacekeepers over Apodock? sheesh _

She let her eyes roam along the silhouette of the plane, letting her thoughts wander in suit. They followed the streaks of scorch marks to one of the engines, and rested at the nozzles covered in black ash.

Her mind took her back to when she ejected over the ashes of Presidia, scooping her parachute into a ball, and collecting her revolver from the survival kit. In the distance, a dazzling light show of a dozen railgun streaks illuminated the clouds. It was bright enough to eclipse the evening sun and the glow of the cordium impact craters.

_ If anyone stood a chance up there, it was Monarch _

She wondered if her plane wasn’t damaged by the cordium bombs if she would’ve lasted even fifteen seconds.

“Good thing Robin’s keeping him company, then.”

Diplomat caught a glimpse of Hitman 1’s operators shifting in the break room. He was glad Monarch was unwinding after looking down the barrel of his pistol earlier.

_ If fighting that son of a bitch did that to Monarch’s head... yeah, no. My mind would’ve been completely fried _

“They’re not bad together, though.”

Comic allowed herself a peek at the two restless mercenaries sitting side by side. She turned over to her wingman who was unabashedly looking on.

“Oh yeah, my cooking matches hearts like none other.”

He looked playfully back at his wingman, and winked.

Comic’s eyes took in the glow of her wingman’s face reflecting the dim fluorescent hallway lights. 

_ There’s no such thing as ‘nice’ this far up North... but he could be an exception _

Comic quickly composed her expression once she became aware of herself. She sought to throw Diplomat off. She cleared her throat, and let her forgotten professionalism guide the delivery of her next words.

“I meant in the  _ air _ .”

Diplomat’s eyes widened. He made grand gestures as he spoke quickly.

“Huh? Uh...well, that’s just because they divide up the work! It’s easy to concentrate on flying when your backseater handles the radar and callouts.”

Diplomat first mimicked Monarch. He furrowed his eyebrows and wore a serious expression as he grabbed an imaginary flight stick and throttle in his hands. He silently made his frame stiff as he reenacted Monarch’s flying style, yanking the stick in wild directions.

“Meanwhile Robin’s sitting oh so comfortably in the back getting an easy payday.”

Diplomat then made his frame more feminine, arching his back to pump out his chest, and held an imaginary phone to his ear. 

“Huh? Fly my own plane? Nah... Monarch treats me  _ just _ right.”

His hands pretended to count a stack of paper bills, and he examined the coating on his nails.

Comic couldn’t help but giggle at his performance, and dropped the front she put up. She joined in the fun.

For a minute, the two let their banter distract them, taking turns imitating their flight lead and crew chief. It was a nice escape for them, and felt like more normal times.

Diplomat grinned knowing his antics had broken through his wingman’s defenses, successfully getting her to crack a smile. Having years of practice, he knew just where to push her buttons and exactly how often. 

He thanked the Dust over and over when he found her chute after they were shot down. He had lost so much, but was eternally grateful his wingman survived. He didn’t know what he’d do without her.

Comic put a hand over her mouth as she steadied her expression. Dip’s jokes didn’t always land the way she expected them to, but she suspected it was part of a larger dance they’ve been in for years. 

Some days she felt like punching his teeth out, but knew it would only validate his attempts to get a rise out of her. Other days, she genuinely liked having him in her presence. 

She knew she had grown rather serious since she first left Cascadia, but something about him brought the old “Comic” out of her. She was glad that part of her was still somewhere inside. And she was thankful her wingman was still around to bring it out of her.

“Hey Monarch, forget the contract. Let’s botch this mission and go to the beach!”

She held a similar phone to her mouth, and snorted as they laughed at Hitman 1’s expense. 

Dip let out a hardy laugh, and poked fun at her. It was a rare reward for him to hear her genuine laugh, and he wasn’t going to let it go unpunished. She responded with murderous eyes, and punched him in his side.

“Hey! Cut it out, Eve!”

Diplomat laughed painfully, and loudly.

Comic widened her eyes as she glanced back over at the midnight snackers sharing a private moment.

“Shut up!”

She shushed her wingman and grabbed his arm to pull them away from the scene. They scurried back towards the barracks.

They stopped for a breath in front of the doors to their rooms.

“Heh, at least something good came out of all this.”

Comic nudged her wingman’s arm where she had punched him before.

“Ha, yeah... I’m just glad it’s over. It should’ve just ended weeks ago, those damn Feds just couldn’t give it a rest.”

Diplomat felt drained by the last stretch of missions they flew out on. It wore him down having to watch the country he was once proudly called home get ripped apart by the war. 

_ Why couldn’t they just couldn’t accept their defeat _

__

He initially thought the irony was funny, having returned home as a mercenary ace when the academy expelled him and his parents practically disowned him. He even laughed when Kennedy Hall was ruined in the first battle of Presidia. 

But he still cared for his hometown- for his old friends and his siblings that were everything to him once. He double checked every target before engaging during their sorties over Presidia.

Diplomat momentarily let his mind picture Presidia from the ground. Instead of the burning ashes around him when his parachute landed, he recalled the view of the skyscrapers from when he was a kid. He could still remember the smooth feel of the marble steps in front of Kennedy Hall. 

“And that damn Peacekeeper...what a real piece of shit.”

Comic’s words turned his anguish into anger. He blamed Crimson 1 for everything, and felt fury at the mention of him.

“By the Dust, if that coward hadn’t taken me out early, I would’ve shut him up good.”

Evelyn looked amusedly at the cocky pilot. She sought to change the tone of the conversation... and to push his buttons.

“Uh-huh. You really think you’d last more than a minute?”

She raised her eyebrows at him mockingly.

Her jab was successful, and Diplomat momentarily dropped his anger to think of a quick comeback. But he knew there was no denying it. He put his hands in the pockets of his flight suit and sighed.

“We’ve got no right living through that.”

His mind went back to when his chute landed, and after he found Eve by her ejection seat. He focused on the crackle of explosions in the distant sky, on the dazzling light show of explosions and bright yellow railgun streaks. He was snagged onto one particular image: of a dark experimental aircraft.

“Yet, we did...”

Comic trailed off.

“It’s not right. He killed all those people- for what? The war was over. He killed them for nothing!”

All he could feel was despair. His hometown was in ruins. He silently hoped his family made it out of Presidia safely.

Diplomat’s blood was boiling. 

“Why didn’t he stand down? He killed them! For what?”

_ Stand down! That’s an order, Major _

His words sent shivers through Comic’s body. 

“Real piece of shit...”

But she wasn’t sure if the Federation Peacekeeper was the one she was referring to.

Diplomat looked back at his wingman with his eyebrows pulled down and his teeth clenched. Her words poured more fuel into his growing inner fire.

“The nerve of that ‘Peacekeeper’... killing his own men, too? No, he didn’t deserve a quick death.. He should’ve lived his life in shame for what he’d done.”

_ This tribunal finds your actions condemnable and unbecoming of an officer. You are hereby dishonorably discha- _

Comic shook her head violently. Her face felt constricted and her eyes felt hot as she lowered her eyelids.

Dip frustratingly wondered why his wingman was shaking her head at his words.

“What? You disagree?”

Comic snapped herself back again. Her legs were shaking, and she stiffened them to keep them still.

“No, you’re right. He deserves to-”

“You know what Monarch told me? He said the bastard claimed to be Cascadian. A Cascadian! Can you believe that shit?”

Comic’s eyes widened. The intrusive thought in her mind was taking a hold of her. She barely noticed a tear drip down her cheek.

Diplomat’s face was visibly red. The muscles in his cheeks were spazzing from clenching his teeth so tightly. Each word came with heavy resistance from his jaw as his anger pressed his mouth closed.

“Cascadian- killing his own countrymen? ...Mother, if I could look that piece of shit in his eyes-”

_ Failing to stand down, Major London’s actions have led to the deaths of two fellow Cascadians. The informant embedded undercover was lost... _

Comic felt like her head was going to explode and felt a sense of panic. All she could do was shake her head. It wasn’t bringing her back to herself and she struggled to lock down her thoughts.

“Peter, that’s enough”

She pressed on her temples with her index and middle fingers, feeling the pressure rising in her skull.

Diplomat wasn’t done. He felt the energy of his anger pulsing through his chest and ripple at his cheeks. He lost his hometown. He lost who knows how many of his friends, his classmates, his neighbors in those cordium blasts. His mind suppressed the thought of his family being caught in them. And he had almost lost Eve... all because of that Peacekeeper.

“By the Dust, I’d-”

Comic felt the taste of salt on her lips. A drop of her tears fell off as she opened her mouth again.

“Just shut up!”

Diplomat’s anger relented as he saw the twisted expression on his wingman’s face. She was shaking, tears were running down her cheeks. Her teeth were clenched as she closed her eyes and faced the floor to her side.

He reached out a hand to her in concern.

“Hey, just take it easy.”

_ Just take it easy, lead- I don’t want a court martial... or to come back in a body bag _

As Comic felt his hand on her shoulder, she recoiled and shoved it away. She felt a surge of thoughts running around in her mind, pressing harder and harder.

“Eve, you okay?”

Comic froze. Diplomat’s voice was drowned out by the weight of her thoughts. She felt like she was looking through a straw, only able to concentrate on random objects. She was trapped in time as each second ticked at a snail’s pace. 

Everything outside of her vision was incomprehensible, and she felt like she was having a stroke. A low hum in her ears grew into a painful ringing as she stood paralyzed in front of her wingman.

Comic felt helpless and at the mercy of her thoughts. She couldn’t will her hands to move, or her eyes to break focus from the floor. Every thought in her mind of leaving, of addressing her wingman, or of doing anything besides standing and shaking was drowned in glue. Her breaths grew shallow and sharp.

“Eve, I-”

She was lost, and managed a few words to her wingman.

“I’m calling it a night.”

Diplomat stood in silence, unable to comprehend what had just happened as Comic shut the door without another word.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	4. Casualties

“Major, break! Another missile on you”

Evelyn felt the straps of her harness cut into her collarbones as she pulled hard on her stick. Her vision was split in two halves: between the desert sky to her left and the sand of the Dustlands to her right. As she pulled through the apex of her 6 G turn, she flexed her pinky to leverage the switch on the side of her throttle.

A volley of flares shot away from the belly of her F-15 in pairs. The white smoke reflected the bright orange glow of the IR decoys. As Evelyn eased back on her stick to a level heading, she turned her head back towards the enemy encampment. 

Her eyes grew wide as they followed a line of white smoke to a missile that was still tracking towards her. She cut her throttle and pulled the pinky switch back several times. Simultaneously, she yanked her stick to the right and back and rolled her aircraft into a corkscrew. Vapor trails formed on the leading edges of her wings as she pulled higher angles of attack.

Behind her, the flares created a spiral pattern as if they were thorns coming off the stem of a rose.

Evelyn took quick breaths as the missile bit on her counter measures at the last minute, and pulled away from her aircraft. She smiled as she pushed her throttle forward and climbed back to her wingman at a safe altitude.

“You’re insane- this wasn’t part of the briefing”

“Heh, got those pirates to show their hand. Didn’t I, 2?”

Evelyn knew she was being cocky, but revelled in every second of it. She had an unshakable grin on her face, and made full use of the exceptional airmanship that fast tracked her to squadron commander.

“I saw triple-A, SAMs... Mother, I think one of them fired an RPG at you”

Evelyn nodded her head approvingly with a wide smirk. 

“Form up, 2. I’ll relay this to command”

She got back to business, and turned the preset knob on her radio to pull up the headquarter’s frequency. 

_ Pull this off right and I just might make Colonel _

“HQ, this is Vanguard 1-1. There are numerous anti-aircraft weapons being employed by the enemy. Notify command: Vanguard will neutralize enemy AD units before the SOF choppers arrive.”

She released her push-to-talk button and listened to static as she maintained a wide orbit around the enemy camp. Taking stock of her weapon stores, she was glad she had brought MLAG missiles.

“Vanguard, hold fast. Kicking this up the chain.”

Evelyn turned to her wingman flying in close formation just off her wing. Multitudes of large UGBs hung on the hardpoints in triple racks. It was entirely her decision to load him up with the heavy munitions... she wanted to keep him out of harm’s way unless it was absolutely necessary. Plus, she figured she’d have more fun keeping her plane light and playing aggressively. 

And she was.

“Looks like I’m playing with the food, but you’ll be the one eating, 2”

“Ha, either way you’ll be getting the credit.”

She chuckled, and returned her attention to her displays. As she set the program on her air to ground missiles to target of opportunity mode, she finally got a response back.

“Vanguard, command cannot authorize an air strike at this time. Standby, weapons safe.”

Evelyn shook her head.

_ Huh? _

Evelyn opened the data link page on her multi-purpose display. She tried to mark the threat zones for the incoming helicopters, but they were no longer visible on her datalink. After trying to reach them on the joint strike frequency, she realized they were flying dark. It meant they had committed to their approach to the camp.

_ There’s no way to warn them in time _

“HQ, that AA is going to tear up the SOF before they even see the camp. Let us loose.”

Her ambition faded into anxiety. She knew something was wrong, and her instincts reinforced as much.

“Vanguard, I repeat, weapons safe. Command has issued a clear order.”

Evelyn tried again to warn the incoming marines, but it was no use.

“Okay lead, looks like we’re sticking to the script for once.”

She held her fingers by the master arm switch for a moment.

_ What the hell are they thinking? _

She pressed her eyelids shut, and gritted her teeth. She knew violating orders would have severe consequences.

“Uhh... boss?”

Evelyn inhaled and exhaled sharply. Every decision in her mind was mulled over and over.

_ What are you doing, Eve? _

She felt her heart pound in her chest. Her face was flush and warm, and her stomach felt like static. The adrenaline pumping through her, amplified by her indecisiveness, made her fidget with her microphone wire.

She took a deep breath. Her body became still, and her mind became focused. She made her decision.

“Arm all hardpoints, 2. We’re going in.”

Her fingers lifted away from the armed master switch. She rested them back on her throttle, and engaged the seeker heads on her MLAGs.

“Uhh... what? Command just ordered us to-”

“If we don’t show these pirates absolute terror, we’ll lose those marines. I’ll do this alone if I have to”

“Okay, okay! Just take it easy, lead- I don’t want a court martial... or to come back in a body bag”

Evelyn let the thought come and go of how badly this could end up for her and her wingman. But it was better than the alternative: of letting the marines die on her watch.

“I’ll be the one responsible for making this call.”

Evelyn rolled her aircraft into a shallow dive towards the pirate camp. She looked over her shoulder to her wingman. He hesitated for a few moments before following her in. She lowered her visor, and turned the brightness up on her helmet mounted cueing system.

_ They’ll see I was right for this _

“Vanguard 1-1, this is HQ- Give me that! 

...

Stand down! That’s an order, Major. Break off and return to orbit immediately. You are endangering this mission. I won’t repeat myself.”

Evelyn shook her head slowly upon hearing the General’s voice.

_ No, you’re the one endangering the mission, and the lives of those marines _

She checked her watch and calculated this was the only window she had before the SOF entered the airspace. Her radar warning receiver played a tone of three notes as her plane got picked up by the SAM sites. She waited patiently for the in-range cue.

The closest SAM sites entered her reach. The cue to shoot popped up on her targeting visor.

“Rifle, rifle.”

Without a moment’s more hesitation, she pressed her weapon release, switched targets, and fired again. A pair of standoff air to ground missiles had become her reply to the pirates, and raced towards the encampment.

As the pair of seekers hunted their targets with impunity, Evelyn once again heard her commanding officer’s voice.

“Disengage, disengage, we have an inform-”

Evelyn annoyedly changed the radio preset frequency. She was zoned in, and was committed to neutralizing the threat. 

She squeezed the trigger and let out a volley of orange rounds, crippling another SAM site.

Coming into range of the pirate’s aerial defenses, she pulled her pinky switch repeatedly and broke from her line. A waterfall of flares floated down over the camp, casting an orange glow over a large stretch of its grounds. The sky behind her became a haze of white smoke percolating and mixing the desert air.

As if she kicked a hornet’s nest, the sky in front of her became ablaze with the buzzing tracers of anti-aircraft fire. She jinked and cranked to evade the incoming shells.

A few lucky hits glanced off her wing. Another put a hole across her nose cone. She gritted her teeth, gave it full throttle, and turned hard as she climbed out of range.

_ Now, you’ve made this personal _

There was a tightness in her chest. She felt her hands shaking. But it wasn’t from the excessive G’s she pulled as condensation trails formed on the leading edge of her wings. It was a rage inside of her, dictating her actions.

Evelyn eased back on her stick. Her plane was tough and she continued flying unfazed, but she knew she couldn’t risk another run. She entered into a high orbit over the camp.

Lifting her tinted visor up, she angled her canopy towards the camp to give herself a clear view of the fireworks. She was pleased to see her air to ground missiles had hit their mark, and took out a pair of SAM sites that would’ve threatened her wingman’s bombing run.

“Clear entry, 2... put an end to this party.”

_ Bury them completely _

“Pickle, bombs away... Pray we all return to dust and Mother’s arms.”

Her eyelids remained open after hearing her wingman’s words. As each pound of ordinance connected with the surface, massive towers of dust rose into the air. Like a stone skipping rapidly along the water, the shockwaves emanating from the cluster munitions rippled along the line her wingman was taking. 

The shanty tents, the ad hoc installations, anything taller 5 feet was flattened. Secondary explosions from loosely stored ammo caches created a comparable finale. Whatever would have survived her wingman’s munitions was surely returned to dust now.

She set her master arm to safe, and pulled up the waypoints back to base.

“Good shooting, 2. Now get out of there, drinks on me tonig-”

Her eyes latched on to a trail of white smoke originating just outside the clouds of dust and leading to a puff of black smoke in the sky. It was a shoulder mounted missile. It hit her wingman.

“I’m hit, I’m..:...:::...:....:.”

Her wingman was engulfed in a ball of flames.

“Eject! Eject dammit!”

She frantically hailed her wingman only to hear static as a response. She saw no chute. A low hum in her ears became a loud, unbearable ringing.

...

Comic clutched the tightness in her chest again. She pulled her knees in close as her eyes began to pool tears. She grabbed her flask sitting idly next to her, and took a large swig.

The thoughts came and went through her head as the edge slowly faded off. She painfully relived that day maybe a hundred times, but her flask was always a handy remedy. It had been for years. She silently took a few more gulps as Prez slept soundly in her bed across the room.

_ Damn... it’s empty _

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is welcome
> 
> References:  
> Project Wingman Files  
> Mission Transcripts by u/ALDO113A (Reddit)  
> Project Wingman Wiki
> 
> Inspirations:  
> "Beacon" by AshedAshley  
> "All for Freedom and Pleasure" by [unknown]  
> "The Good Daughter" by FlyAwayNow  
> "Letters from the President" by KingAardvark1st  
> "A King's Coronation" by ViolentBlue (FFN)


End file.
